Nothing
by WI is AWESOME
Summary: They tried so hard but amounted to nothing. Human AU! Warning: Suicide, self harm
1. Chapter 1

**AN: I don't own this. Any of it. And if you review, I'll review one of your stories! Thanks for everything! And a (virtual) cookie if you can guess all of the unnamed people!**_  
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_You were standing in the wake of devastation _

_You were waiting on the edge of the unknown _

_With the cataclysm raining down _

_Insides crying 'save me now' _

_You were there impossibly alone_

The man stood alone on the corner of the desolated street, home of the druggies and alcoholics. Ahead was the unreachable good life, where the blonde man walked into a huge corporate building, his always forgotten secretary walking in late every morning. Where the chef and his waiter worked each day until two. The bookshop whose owner worked six other jobs to keep going. The punk literacy teacher and his American boyfriend. The man watched the life he could never have.

He was born to a whore who gave him to the father, a alcoholic, who abused him, hit him, hurt him and then he had left. The man tried so hard but never amounted to anything. He got a collage degree and got a job, but they cut him, and now he worked twelve jobs a day plus favors just to get an apartment, and sometimes a bit of food.

Once, he had a brother, but they gave him away, keeping this man as a punching bag, nothing more than an object used to many times. But he remembered his brother very well. He had blonde hair and bright blue eyes and always followed the rules and was the sweetest child you'd ever meet, even beginning in a home as bad as his. His brother, Ludwig, was with them until he was four, and then he was gone, given away. This man was never aloud to touch him, to play with him, to interact. He was only nine, but he understood. He wasn't good enough. He was never good enough.

The man stood on the corner, red eyes peering past the traffic, watching the Italian twins open their Gelato and Pasta stand,the Spanish man protecting his little sister, the tired broken and flirting Frenchman. And he wished he could have a good job again. Twenty-seven and working twelve jobs, Gilbert Beilschmidt stepped in front of the oncoming traffic and wished for death.

Everyone stopped and stared as a semi-tractor trailer hurtled down the road, hitting the white haired man, running him over, and continuing without even noticing. The man embraced death with open arms.

The Literacy teacher called nine-one-one. The Italian brothers started sobbing. The Spanish man picked up his sister. The waiter dropped his tray. The bookstore owner grabbed a book of CPR. The police showed up.

The man was loaded into the ambulance, people looking on. The only time he was noticed, was his death. And minutes later, the all went on with their lives, forgetting the dead man without a family or home, without love or friends. The man who had lived a life and had come to nothing.

_Do you feel cold and lost in desperation _

_You build up hope, but failures all you've known _

_Remember all the sadness and frustration _

_And Let it go _

_Let it go _


	2. Chapter 2

_Pain_

_Without Love_

_Pain _

_Can't Get Enough_

__His arms were canvases. A lace for art. A place where a knife would press, time and time again creating bloody art hidden beneath sleaves. And it was all. It was control. It was relief.

He didn't deserve anything. He was stupid. Useless. Broken. No one would want the man who was no good at anything. So he painted with blood and tried harder, but still, he was struck down.

People always preferred his brother. They preferred his brothers attitude and his gelato, his smile, his hair, his eyes. The list was endless. No one preferred Lovino. No one preferred the grumpy brother who put his life into what he did and wasn't appreciated. People didn't understand how they hurt him when they asked for "Feli's gelato, the other's no good".

Sometimes he wanted to be the man across the street. Sometimes he wished he could finally take his life instead of making all these useless cuts. His brother was the only one who cared. Lovino tried to be nice, but everyone rejected him still.

He was so close to giving up. So close to becoming another pile of ashes in the polluted river. So close to kissing Feliciano goodbye and leaving, once and for all.

Lovino remembered. He remembered when he had held his tiny newborn brother at four years old. He remembered realizing when he was ten 'No one needs me anyway. They have Feliciano'. And it was true. It was true then and it was true now. It was always true

The blonde businessman was in love with Feli, the Canadian assistant liked Feli's maple syrup gelato. The chef and his waiter used Feli to draw their signs. The bookstore owner preferred the happy Italian. The punk and his boyfriend didn't even know Lovino existed, only Feli. The frenchman only flirted with his brother. The only one who might not hate him was the tired Spaniard, asking for _his _gelato, his small sister preferring Feliciano's flowers.

That night, he thanked the Spaniard. He kissed his brother and told him he loved him. The moon shone brightly over the river. And his faithful blade made stroke after stroke, until he passed out and fell into the freezing water, death claiming the elder Vargas. And he was happy to go.

_Pain_

_I like it rough_

_'cause I'd rather feel pain_

_than nothing at all_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Review=imaginary cookies and a review for one of your stories, if you've got them! Love everyone who's read this so far.**

_I tried so hard_

_And got so far_

_But in the end_

_It doesn't even matter_

He walked down the familiar street, sister grasping his left hand tightly. They walked past the corner where the man had died. They walked past the gelato stand that was now manned by only one Italian, less bouncy than he was a year ago. They walked across the bridge where Lovino had died.

The park loomed ahead of them, a mass of huge leafy green trees, the only partway clean part of the ancient city. The Spaniard led his sister into the trees toward a playground. They had buit it themselves, with hard work and elbow grease. So the little girl loved it, and that made the Spanish man the happiest person in the world.

But then, it all went wrong. A gang, tromping through the woods high, came upon them. The Spanish man stood in front of his sister, trying desperately to protect her. And he did. They shot time and time again, but the little girl was safe, and they escaped.

The two of them never went back to the woods again. They didn't have long, for the gang invaded their house a week later, dead of night. They picked up the younger one and woke up the older. They told him if he moved, they would kill his sister.

He was perfectly still while they searched the house, while his sister cried. They found nothing. So they snapped his sisters neck before he could blink an eye. And then they left.

He picked up his sister, cradling her, tears spilling, wishing she was still alive. Because he would do anything. But none of it would work. So he arranged the best burial he could. He loved his sister, and she was gone.

It seemed all the beauty in his life was gone. His sister was dead. The Italian he had a crush on was dead. But mostly, his sister was dead and he couldn't change that. He let her die. He hadn't done anything. So he ran, trying to escape his inner demons.

That was how he ended up in the makeshift playground again. That was how he came to hanging from the thick branch of a tree, killing himself

Slowly he died. And the thought he deserved the pain. And then he was dead.

It took almost a week for anyone to notice his absence. It took two more for them to find his body. Feli cried, but he didn't really care. No one else cared in the slightest. The punk disliked him, so his boyfriend disliked him. Feli liked him for his sister and the money he got when they bought his gelato. He didn't know the bookstore owner. The businessman thought he was annoying. The Frenchman only used him for a place to stay. No one cared. So Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was happy to be gone.

_I had to fall_

_To lose it all_

_But in the end_

_It doesn't even matter_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: Seriously I love you guys. And I said this would be up yesterday but it's not and I'm sorry. *gets down on knees and begs. So I hope you enjoy!**  
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_When you're at the end of the road__  
__And you lost all sense of control__  
__And your thoughts have taken their toll__  
__When your mind breaks the spirit of your soul_

He was always forgotten. He was always overlooked or mistaken for his brother. Sometimes he just went off the hook. Sometimes he went and got high with the Dutch guy the floor above him. Sometimes he passed out on the floor from blood loss. But somehow, no one ever noticed.

He had seen the pained man of the man on the corner, Gilbert, having spoken once years before. E had seen the cuts when the angry Italian's sleeve pulled up just that much. He heard the anguished screams from next door. He saw it all because he knew. He was the same sport as them, but he hadn't quite died yet.

His employer wouldn't know he existed except for the piles of finished work around the the office and the fresh cup of coffee on his desk. But the Canadian appreciated his German employer, thanked him for the job and the pay, and for never noticing him come in late, each and every morning.

He thought of those things as he lift his apartment once and for all, heading out towards somewhere, anywhere that would just see him

He remembered his brother, the obnoxious American. When he left, Alfred had almost forgotten him, hopelessly in love with the British punk, who loved him back, but scared to show it. He remembered his cousin too, French, once in love with the same Englishman as Alfred, but broken now, a prostitute shell of his formally full of life perverted self. But he doubted they remembered him, for no one ever did.

So one day, one fateful day, on top of a snow covered mountain, he fell. He fell, cuts breaking open as he tumbled down the rocky slope. Death bled out in red over a single tuft of grass trying desperately to live. And Matthew William, Canadian, died, and no one really noticed.

The German man noticed his workload was larger, but didn't know why. The bookstore owner wondered why his sales were down. The remaining Italian wished his lover had less work again. The sad Frenchman's eyes got a little sadder wen he learned he no longer had a place to escape. Alfred cried, before promptly forgetting why and never thinking of his brother again. So no one cared about him, only the disadvantages it put them at, and so was the story of the Canadian, Matthew Williams.

_Your faith walks on broken glass _

_And the hangover doesn't pass__  
__Nothing's ever built to last_

_You're in ruins_


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: Sorry this took so long. I started another story, and I have writers block, so this is bad. The lyrics are really bad for this one, so if you find anything better, tell me! Reviews for me=Reviews for you. I love you guys, sorry for the wait**_

_For a leader so nervous in an obvious way_

_Stutterin' and mumblin' for nightly news to replay_

The American was once at the top of the world. He once was in a good position, he had a home, a brother, enough money. Then the depression came and he got laid off and couldn't get another job. He lived with his brother before he moved to his boyfriends apartment.

He began to work unsavory jobs and paid his half of the rent and more often than not his boyfriends too, because sometimes the British man would go out and get drunk. Sometimes he'd lend money to the homeless French guy. So Alfred payed the rent, and pretended not to care, because really, he was just grateful for the roof over his head.

Almost ten years after he first picked up a blade and four after he last did for this purpose, he picked one up again. He felt the raised bumps on his hips and upper arms and thighs. He didn't want to do this again, but the urge was so strong. He felt the cool metal against his forearm. He felt the blood spill out along with his troubles. And he felt better than he had in years.

It was just enough and he kept it up for a year. And then the British man found out. He yelled and yelled and yelled and kicked Alfred out. So he left, wandering the streets without a job, cutting, sleeping, slowly starving to death.

He knew about his brother, he knew his brother killed himself. He knew that the feisty Italian had jumped off that bridge. He knew the man on the corner didn't survive. And he was thinking of becoming one of them.

Everyone already thought he was dead because the man he had loved thought he was dead, and told them. The Japanese bookseller, once his best friend believed it. The Chinese chef and his waiter believed him. The German businessman believed him. So did the giant Russian mechanic, the Hungarian schoolteacher and her Austrian husband along with the three boys who worked for the Russian and many others. Alfred decided to make their beliefs true.

Between two dumpster, he cut deeper and deeper and he faded out, life gone, death embracing him. The dirt soaked in the blood like water. The once energetic American was gone.

When they found his body, the Brit cried and cried and cried and silent tears dripped down the booksellers cheeks. The businessman didn't care, the mechanic laughed. Everyone expected it and they weren't surprised. Alone in death was Alfred F. Jones, the opposite of himself in life.

_And the rest of the world watchin' at the end of the day_

_In their livin' room laughin' like, "What did he say?"_


End file.
